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BOOKS BY LLOYD MIFFLIN 

The Hills 

PAGE eXIO. WITH EIGHT REPRODUCTIONS FROM PEN 
DRAWINGS BY THOS. MORAN, N. A, 

PRIVATELY PRINTED. 1896 

At the Gates of Song 

ILLUSTRATED WITH TEN REPRODUCTIONS IN HALF- 
TONE AFTER DRAWINGS BY THOS. MORAN, N. A. 
FIRST AND SECOND EDITIONS. 

ESTES & LAURIAT. BOSTON. 1897 

THIRD EDITION REVISED AND PRINTED FROM NEW 
PLATES, WITH PORTRAIT. 

HENRY FROWDE. LONDON. 190I 

The Slopes of Helicon and other Poems 

WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS BY THOS. MORAN, N. A., 
AND WITH TWO BY THE AUTHOR. 

ESTES & LAURIAT, BOSTON, 1898 

Echoes of Greek Idyls houghton. mifflin & co.. 1899 
The Fields of Dawn and Later Sonnets 

HOUGHTON. MIFFLIN a CO.. 1900 

Castalian Days 

FIFTY SONNETS, WITH PHOTOGRAVURE PORTRAITS 

HENRY FROWDE. LONDON AND NEW YORK. 1903 

The Fleeing Nymph and Other Verse 

SMALL. MAYNARD & CO.. BOSTON. 190S 

Collected Sonnets of Lloyd Mifflin 

BEING A SELECTION OF 350 OF THE AUTHOR'S SON- 
NETS,— 2D EDITION, 1907 

HENRY FROWDE. LONDON AND NEW YORK. 190S 

My Lady of Dream small, maynard a co.. i906 

Toward the Uplands 

HENRY FROWDE. LONDON AND NEW YORK, 1908 

FLOWER AND THORN 

HENRY FROWDE. LONDON AND NEW YORK. I909 

As Twilight Falls 

HENRY FROWDE. LONDON AND NEW YORK. 1916 



AS TWILIGHT FALLS 



POEMS 



BY 



LLOYD MIFFLIN 

it 

AUTHOR OF 

At the Gates of Song ; Collected Sonnets ; 
Toward the Uplands ; Etc. 




NEW YORK 
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS 

HUMPHREY MILFORD, PRES't AMERICAN BRANCH 

35 WEST 32ND STREET 

LONDON, TORONTO, MELBOURNE AND BOMBAY 

MDCCCCXVr 






COPYRIGHT, 1916 

BY 

LLOYD MIFFLIN 

AUL RIGHTS RESERVED 



JUL II 1317 



SET UP AND PRINTED IN UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, I9|6 



©^i.A4{37884 



PREFACE 

Of all the Arts there is no other comparable to the Art of 
Literature, and the crown and flower of Literature is Poetry. 

Having always thought the Sonnet — although the least popular — 
to be the most distinguished and the most exalted of all forms of 
English verse, I have devoted my literary life chiefly to its study and 
creation. I have published more than five hundred Sonnets in the 
Miltonic, and the true Guittonian form — besides a few showing 
structural innovations — and I have written, but not published, a 
large number of others. 

The task of creating this amount of Poetry, couched in that most 
intricate and difficult of forms can be adequately appreciated only by 
those who have attempted the work, and who have succeeded in 
doing it. 

In this contribution to Sonnet Literature over five hundred themes 
have been treated. 

The Sonnets in the present volume may be considered a further 
contribution to my other books in which poetry in this form appears : 
At The Gates of Song ; The Slopes of Helicon ; The Fields of Dawn; 
Echoes of Greek Idyls ; Castalian Days ; The Fleeing Nymph ; My 
Lady of Dream ; Toward The Uplands ; Flower and Thorn ; and 
my Collected Sonnets. 



PREFACE 

In addition to Sonnet creation, I have, at intervals, published 
over two hundred Lyrics, some of which are included in the present 
collection. 

This is my Last Book. Illness prevents me from doing more. 
For the work which I have already done the most eminent Literary 
Authorities, and the magazines and journals of both this country and 
Great Britain have been exceptionally generous in their praise ; and 
I feel, profoundly, my indebtedness to them. My note has been pure, 
and my hearers have been appreciative ; so that, in this parting hour, 
when, spiritually reminiscent, I dwell upon the years I have passed 
in close communion with the Muse, I feel that my worship has been 
reverential ; and I exult in that I have left the sacred garland un- 
sullied on her brow. 

This is my Triumph — and my Pride ; it is also both a Challenge 
and an Invocation to those who may follow me. And now thus sud- 
denly, and prematurely, yet with profound sorrow, I at last take 
leave of that dear Spirit — The Spirit of Poetry — which has been my 
Sovereign Guide through so many dream-led years over the mead- 
ows of Fancy and upon the Uplands of Imagination. 

The fashions in Poetry change, but Youth with its beautiful 
illusions remains, and Love remains ; and where these, lightened by 
the Torch of Spirituality, exist, Poetry will abide. 

These may not be of the Present, but of the Future, and to 

these, and to the Future — that dawn-lit Refuge for those who, like 

myself, salute and withdraw — I leave my work. 

L. M. 
Norwood 
S«p. 15,1916 



Cleopatra— What shall we do, Enobarbus? 
Enobarbus — Think, and die. 

— Shal^espeaTc 



DEDICATION 

TO GEORGE BROWN MIFFLIN 

When they were young, both your father and mine, who 
Were relatives, loved poetry and wrote it, and mine, in 1 835 
even published a volume of Lyrics. In ^ou and in me since 
boyhood days, though We have been separated M; distance, 
poetry has been a passion. In me it has been a consuming 
flame, and in each of us the flame still burns ; — and so to 
^ou. Old Friend, who have been a trusted critic of m\) poetry 
for the last twenty years, and, through numerous letters 
whose suggestions — poetic, subtile, and singularly original — 
have long since placed me under Pierian obligations, to ^ou 
I now offer these belated thanks. 

And let us, as the twilight deepens, fervently thank ihe 
Muse for the exquisite hours which she, in her beneficence 
has bestowed upon us — hours in which she made us oblivious 
of the world whose material boundaries ceased for us to ex- 
ist, while enthralled by that laborious pleasure which is hers ; 
— so that, as I have elsewhere written : 

'* Time swept beneath us as a flying road. ** 

L. M. 

Nornood 
September, 15, 19 f 6 



Contents 

PAGE 

To The Poets i 

Ships That Go Down on The Deep 2 

At The Trysting Place 3 

The Venice Of Our Youth 4 

June on the Conestoga 5 

Boulders Of The Susquehanna, Submerged 6 

A Poet Passes 7 

When The Green Rye Waves . 8 

October Days At Home lo 

Student Days In Italy 1 1 

Helios 12 

Looking Again At The Far Off Hills 13 

The Aphrodite Of Hans Schuler 14 

Children Coming From The Mills 15 

On The Headland, Invasion Of Britain 16 

Florence Nightingale 17 

Reflected Joy 18 

To The Statue, ''Descending Night" 19 

The Little Orchard On The Hill 20 

Welcome Are These 21 

The Lover By The Stream 22 

The Damming Of The Susquehanna 24 

Mountain Laurel As The State Flower 25 

To the Submerged Rocks — the Susquehanna 26 

The Later Glow 27 

TwilightBy The Druid's Stone 28 

The Sleeping Endymion 29 

The Chosen Site 30 

Beyond The Main 31 

By Her Dear Hand 32 

O Linger Yet 33 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

O Present Life 34 

Whither 35 

November Passes 36 

The Little Ladies Of Japan 37 

Avenged 38 

Water Cress in Paris 39 

A Winter Sunset 40 

Forgotten 41 

After The Storm •••... 42 

A Man's Song From The Wintry Shore ...••• 43 

The Morning Hour In New York 44 

Slowly The Splendor Comes 45 

The Statue. The War Lord. The Dead Poet 46 

The Locust Trees In Bloom 47 

Our Sailors' Graves 49 

The Unrevealed 5° 

The Painting. The Lure. The Solemnites 5^ 

The Last Song Of Ramon Miravol $2 

The Drizzling Day 53 

Starlight By The Sea 54 

At The Day's End 55 

Invitation to Winter in California 56 

Defeated 60 

The Relentless One 61 

Imprisoned 62 

An Evening At Lititz 63 

Before Daybreak 64 

Rembrandt — Hudson-Fulton Exhibition 65 

The World's Transient Guest 66 

She Was A Breath Of Springtime 67 

So Sang An English Poet 69 

Balboa In Panama 70 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Shadowy City Looms 71 

As Evening Lowers 74 

A Song By The Misty Sea 75 

Then Death Replied 76 

A Wayside Weed In Bloom , . ... 77 

Of An Aged Poet 78 

Sappho to Phaon On The Lesbian Headland 79 

Timothy Cole — Engraver 80 

When Love Was Born 81 

William Uhler Hensel 82 

On Tlie Winter Porch 83 

The Premonition 84 

Cgedmon 85 

Ye Vengeful Kings • • 86 

The Crimson Swath • • • 87 

The Belgium Relief Campaign 88 

The Emergency Aid Committee 89 

The War Against Civilization 90 

Ultimate Brotherhood 91 

The Progress Of Peace 92 

Midnight At The Tomb Of Grant 93 

Landseer's Painting, "Peace" 94 

Slaughter Of The Innocent 95 

The God Of Battles 96 

The Awakening 97 

Insatiate Monster 98 

Age 99 

Morituri Salutamus 100 

From Lyrics by J. H. M., 1835 102 



AS TWILIGHT FALLS 



TO THE POETS 

Men named her once, in far Hellenic days, 
The sacred Muse, for power was hers, divine; 
She fired great Homer's lips, and, 'mid the kine, 
Laureled Theocritus, whose pipe still plays 

On capes of blue . . . Ah, Poets, who shall raise 
A paean to the Muse in her decline? 
How will ye meet, if ye her claims resign. 
The incriminating splendor of her gaze? 

High aims are yours; — to clasp the spirit gleams, — 

Mould them, immutably, in forms apart; 

Poems to weld, — red from the human heart; 
Annunciation of ethereal themes. 

And unimagined, World-fraternal dreams, — 

Fit consummation of the poet's art. 



SHIPS THAT GO DOWN ON THE DEEP 

They sail away with streaming pennons brave 
From sheltered ports, — a thousand ships a year; 
Boldly they go, nor prescience have, nor fear 
Of fate that draws them to an ocean grave. 

These voyagers no frantic prayers may save: 

The wrecks, adrift, are but their wandering bier; 
They lie, beyond the touch of mortal tear, 
Tombed in the vast of the sepulchral wave. 

O eager Youth! that, from the harbors fair. 
Start for the ports of Promise without fail. 
Will ye withstand the battering storm and strife, 

And reach the goal? or, stricken with despair, 
Be, — like the doomed hulks with tattered sail, — 
Whelmed to oblivion on the sea of Life? 



AT THE TRYSTING PLACE 

THE LOVER SPEAKS 

The gold of Evening into grayness fades; 

And now the Twilight spreads her sheltering plumes 

And shields me with her shades, 

E'en as some brooding dove's 
Are folded o'er her nestlings which she loves, 

Far in the forest glooms. 

The crescent dreams in branches of the fir, 
And o'er the woodland path the stars arise 

To light the way for her; 

The wild grass rustles near; 
And then a step, — and all my heaven is here, — 

Love, with her longing eyes! 



THE VENICE OF OUR YOUTH 

Far off the City lies, — her domes of white 
Touched by the rising sun. As some fair maid, 
She blushes at her lover's kiss, now laid 
Upon her brow. Only a poet might 

Conjure such sea-throned vision of delight; 
Noise and harsh clangor do not there invade 
Streets that are silent as a Druid glade, — 
O Rose of Dawn and Lily of the Night! 

And now the evening gilds the gondolier 
Where the inverted City, mirrored, floats; 
And o'er the shipping slowly climbs the moon, 

While masts are motionless on all the boats, — 
Still as the Lombard-poplars when the air 
Stirs not a ripple on the hushed Lagoon. 



JUNE ON THE CONESTOGA 

Within the shadow which the foliage throws 
The drowsing cattle by thy waters dream ; 
The white arms of the trees above thee gleam, 
And on thy slopes the ripening harvest glows; 

From meadows of the hay the fragrance blows 
Sweeter than all Arabia ! . . . What a theme 
For revery thou art, O pastoral stream, 
Idyllic in thy beauty and repose 1 

Nine arches hath thy bridge of classic mould — 
One for each Muse — clear-mirrored on thy breast; 
Amid this quiet of the evening hours 

Tranquil thou flowest toward yon waste of gold. 
Where, shadowed 'gainst the fulgence of the West, 
The stately College lifts her clustered towers. 



THE BOULDERS OF THE SUSQUEHANNA 

SUBMERGED BY THE GREAT POWER DAM 
AUGUST, 191 1 

Where are those guardians of the rushing stream, — 
The river-sculptured rocks of yesterday? 
That herd of Lions, couchant for their prey. 
Roaring above the freshets, made it seem 

As if the waters lived ! . . . Men's disesteem 
And Mammon-greed have sunk them deep away 
Beneath a wide monotony of gray, — 
Lost to the world as some drowned poet's dream! 

Oh, Thou, retard our fate! Give yet the thrills, 
The torrent-shock, the impact, and the swirl 
Of rushing life, and glimpse of beckoning hills! 

Sink us not yet! lovers of sky and sun, 

We graying men, who crave awhile the whirl 
And rapture of the rapids as they run! 



A POET PASSES 

The Shadow brooded o'er him, as he lay 
Waiting the end; but far beyond the gloom 
He saw the clustered domes with glory dim 
In air-built citadels. Celestial slopes 

Beamed with lost faces, found; and tides of song 
Swept from the morning stars, as faint he saw 
A shadowy Form move to him, down a path 
Filled with excessive light; then softly came 

The Presence, veiled, and called him, and consoled: 
As when our noon-day sun, breaking through clouds, 
Beats on a glaring plain of burnished snow, 

And from his wake of blazing silver pours 
Unearthly splendor, so, in brighter light. 
He saw Death moving to him on the gleam. 



WHEN THE GREEN RYE WAVES 

When the rye is tall as Marian's head 

By the path as she comes to me, 
And the rose in her hair — the rose of red — 

Is laved by the bearded sea, 
It is then to the trysting place we hie 

Where the gray-green billows go over the rye 

There are deeper joys — the lure of her eyes — 
And the warmth of her loving kiss. 

But after the rapture — after the sighs, 
A lingering pleasure is this. 

In the shade at her darling feet to lie 
As the rolling billows go over the rye. 



WHEN THE GREEN RYE WAVES 



Tho' the white cloud calls, yet the sea of green 

With its wonderful waves is fair; 
Tho' the red-wing hovers o'er head to feign 

That his nest in the grass is there, 
Yet our hearts are set on the lights that fly 

O'er the magical reach of the waves of rye. 

And I ask will she follow me clear of the Day 

Out over that ocean of green, 
To an isle that basks in the Far- Away, 

That only lovers have seen. 
And deep in her eyes is the sweet reply 

As we drift afar o'er the sea of rye. 



OCTOBER DAYS AT HOME 

Restless and strange, the birds now dream of flight 
To far savannas, as the partridge whirs 
From briery uplands near. With chestnut burrs 
The squirrels are busy, leaping in delight 

From limb to limb, where jays at dizzy height, 
Shrill their harsh challenge, while the zenith blurs 
The swift-winged geese, — aerial voyagers, — 

, Arrowing aloft to lose themselves in light. 

In Indian-file the turkey leads her brood. 

Eying the hawk above. From hollow boughs 
The tapping flicker darts on golden wings ; 

The red-bird long has sought the deeper wood. 
While from the elm, anear the olden house, 
The oriole's woven cradle empty swings. 



10 



STUDENT-DAYS IN ITALY— A RESTROSPECT 

The Evening gilds the church-dome far away 
High on the hills. The sun is almost set, 
And Alban mountain-tops are roseate yet 
With vernal snow. — Stretched far in long array, 

Behold the toilers at the end of day, 

Where slowly coming, tired and labor-bowed. 
One sees them dimly in a rising cloud 
Of golden dust along the Appian Way. 

In field apart, responsive, mate to mate. 
Lone contadini sing below the pine; 
The panniered donkeys, orange-laden, wait 

Beside the Trattoria 'neath the vine. 
And there the artist-travelers, now elate, 
Chat o'er their Parmesan and Asti|wine. 



11 



HELIOS 

My chariot-team, whirled on by flaming wings, 
Beats the dawn-vapor into flakes of fire ; 
My rays made Memnon murmur as a lyre : 
Barbarian hosts and their imperious Kings 

Knelt by mine altars with burnt-offerings: 
Shrouded in scarlet and in gold attire 
Each eve I perish on my sumptuous pyre, 
Yet every morn my bright renascence brings. 

Innumerous orbs illume the rolling Earth 

When I, at dusk, withdraw from view of men, 
But star and planet never meet my sight: 

I am that Splendor of primeval birth 
Which flushed the yawn of Chaos, and since then 
For me — till systems crash — there is no Night. 



12 



LOOKING AGAIN AT THE FAR-OFF HILLS 

With falcon-wings have flown the two score years 
Since here I trod the heights, yet now I gaze 
Entranced, for that blue loveliness betrays 
No age, — like some perpetual Bride who bears 

Unfading wreaths of bloom, it yearly wears 
Fresh garlands woven of cerulean haze; 
These dreamy hills, well loved in happier days. 
Seem even lovelier as my twilight nears. 

Tense life hath taken her relentless toll, 
For to myself I turn, and see the truth 
Furrowed upon my brow, and in the soul 

Deep scars; corrosive time hath wrought the change; 
And yet yon blue, insensate, mountain-range 
Defies mutation with perennial youth. 



13 



THE APHRODITE OF HANS SCHULER 

O POET-SCULPTOR of Hellenic themes 

Who wanderest through the dim Italian vales, 
Thy marbles wing us to immortal dales 
Where gods recline by amaranthine streams. 

Honor to him, who, by marmorean dreams 
So carven that the ancient prestige pales, 
Lifts us from out the sordid, and regales 
The famished spirit with diviner gleams. 

Mother of Love! — nay, Love itself thou art; 

Born of the Sea, — sea-flower of fire and foam; 

Wave-pillowed head ; the sweet breast dolphin- 
tossed; 
Thy loveliness — a pang that pierces home! 

Oh, poignant is thy beauty, for the heart 

Sees what it yearned for and forever lost! 



14 



THE CHILDREN COMING FROM THE MILLS 

The troop of children that should be at play 

Romping through upland fields from morn to eve, 
Or studious at the schools, — can we believe 
Them slaves, thralls of the soulless looms that slay? 

Shall young life have no sun? — no holiday? 
But, standing at the shuttle, endless weave, 
Straining for others still without reprieve. 
Strangers to joy — wearing their prime away? 

Now youth's fair flower is trampled as a weed. 
And pallid children show the care-worn face, — 
That index of a future stunted race: 

The whirring shuttles suck the toilers' blood; 
Youths left emaciate by the cogs of Greed, 
And budding Maidens marred for motherhood. 



15 



ON THE HEADLANDS 

THE INVASION OF BRITAIN, UNDER BOADICEA, 
BY SUETONIUS, 62 A.D. 

Through twilight mist the West, with lurid red, 
Flushed all the uplands. There, in trance I stood 
And watched the Vision, saw the ensanguined feud 
Rage on the summits, whence was heard the tread 

Of conquerors coming and of captives led, 
And moanings of a mangled multitude. 
Where, 'mid the carnage on that field of blood, 
I saw the Warrior Queen uncharioted. 

The Sea, remembering, sobbed around her capes 
Where ghostly Kings, bewildered at their doom, 
Sought the lost sceptre and the crumbled throne: 

Then, in the air, triumphant spectral-shapes 
Arthurian, passed in panoply and plume. 
Led by the phantom-trumpets, faintly blown. 



16 



FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE 

Angel and woman, nearing ninety years, 
We lay this amaranth flower at her feet, — 
The wide world's love, — a tribute richly meet, 
For mid the cannons' carnage and the spears' 

She moved heroic, and the soul reveres 
Her saintly ministrations, heavenly sweet; 
Science to love she joined, and did entreat 
Death back to life, and checked a million tears. 

At Balaklava, through the dreadful camp 
Miles long of maimed men, her lot was cast 
Through shrieking, bleeding wrecks of sword and ball; \ 

And in night hospitals, as on she passed, 

The wounded blessed our "Lady of the Lamp," — 
The dying kissed her shadow on the wall. 



17 



REFLECTED JOY 

To LOOK on happiness through others' eyes," 
So mused I, not without a secret pain, 
For lovers passed me in the twilight lane, 
As arm in arm they murmured soft replies. 

How sweetly Love can gild the winsome lies 
Whispered in Youth! But oh! to us in vain 
He calls, if in our heart that barb remain, — 
''To look on happiness through others' eyes." 

Joy is a jewel-casket locked to Age, 

Youth and Love only have the golden key; 
Bliss is a bubble, bursting as it flies: 

Now evening comes, and what is left to me? 
This is the pathos of life's pilgrimage, — 
"To look on happiness through others' eyes," 



18 



TO THE STATUE 



DESCENDING NIGHT' 



I LOVED the Day, but now the dim Night clings 
Close to my soul. Lo, through the evening air 
Night comes, — naked and pure — divinely fair — 
Slow-floating downward on those brooding wings! 

She is the Dove of Darkness, and she brings 
The olive, Peace, into the Tents of Care; 
Oh, let the raven mystery of her hair 
Enshroud me with occult imaginings! 

O Night, if thou art beautiful as this,^ 

Let thine arms fold me till my passing breath 
Dies into dreams wherein the Spirit rests: 

Numb me with rapture of thy Lethean kiss; 

Lean close above me, — touch me with thy breasts. 
Make me thy bridegroom in the Halls of Death. 



19 



THE LITTLE ORCHARD ON THE HILL 

Could any slope be lovelier, e'en in May, 

Than this, bedecked in peach-bloom, where is seen 
The clustered pink against a floor of green, 
As if the hill were one superb bouquet? 

Faint airs of Persia linger in each spray; 

Here Beauty, reigning in this rare demesne, 
Trails her rich garments like an orient queen, 
All roseate as the clouds at dawn of day: 

But when the lithe boughs, laden to the tips 
With golden ovals pulped with luscious mell, — 
When crimsoned globes invite the eager lips 

With fruity honey, then, across the years, 
The Eden Gardener, wheresoe'r he dwell, 
Must look with longing on the nectared spheres! 



20 



WELCOME ARE THESE 



Welcome to us such harbingers as these: 
The murmur of the honey-laden bees; 
Welcome the warbled song and myriad wing 

In Dryad woodlands gemmed by April rain; 
The dove's soft moan of joy; the slope that glows 

When laurel-blossoms make each bush a rose: 
Ah! dear to us and tragic is the Spring — 
The Spring that we shall seldom greet again! 



21 



THE LOVER BY THE STREAM 

O PURLING waters from yon mountain woods, 

Wind through the meadow on these summer days, 
Curve, and re-curve, in seeming senseless maze 
That few may understand. 
But when rude March shall bring the rushing floods 
Thy bends shall block the tide 

Of devastation wide. 
And save the fertile land: 
Curve, silver stream and save the meadow land! 

Here oft a maiden comes at eventide 
To call the cattle from the pasture deep: 
If one should 'neath her modest wimple peep, — 
If one should touch her hand, 
Let down the bars, and linger by her side, 
Would such things do her wrong ? 
O curve, and wind along, 
And carol o'er the sand, — 
Wind, happy stream, and save her father's land! 

22 



THE LOVER BY THE STREAM 

We stroll along the margin in a dream, — 
Was ever farmer's daughter half so fair ? 
And in the twilight of the lilied wier 
We loiter, hand-in-hand. 
O straighten not the windings, dreamful stream, 
For I should then have less 
Of her shy loveliness : 

Wind on o'er pebbly sand, — 
Bend, lyric stream, and save her father's land! 

Her grizzled parent stroked his beard and said, — 
"Meadow and cottage shall be hers in Spring, — " 
For April blooms shall bear a marriage ring 
For some one's pretty hand ! 
O winding stream remember when we're wed, 
Sing ever 'round her feet, 
And keep her pure and sweet, 
As is thy golden sand; 
Wind, darling stream, and save her bridal land! 



23 



TO PENNSYLVANIANS ON THE DAMMING 
OF THE SUSQUEHANNA 

Shall your true birth-right in this stream be sold? 

Your River dammed, by stealth, as in the night? 

And yet no protest made? no sign of fight? 

Cowards! The Trappers would have risen of old 
In their primeval manhood, — they were bold, — 

They would have bled for this riparian right ; 

But you, though weaponed with the ballot's might 

Tamely submit — sheep sheared within the fold! 
If men are craven, as they seem to be, 

Submitting to such robbery at their door. 

Thou mighty Stream! alone vent thou thy wrath: 
Rise! till a thousand torrents thundering roar 

Headlong, and in thy wild, avenging path, 

Sweep this abomination to the sea! 



24 



THE MOUNTAIN LAUREL AS THE STATE 
FLOWER FOR PENNSYLVANIA 

Search all the gardens, every reedy fen, 
Upland and meadow where wild nature teems, 
The tangled thicket where the torrent gleams 
In thunderous foam adown the forest glen, 

And thou shalt find no flowering denizen 
Equal our Kalmia, robed in rosiest white. 
Whose beauty is a pang of pure delight, 
Touching, through loveliness, the heart of men. 

Unfading Laurel! symbol of our hopes. 
Immortal Dryad of the greenwood gloom. 
Long mayst thou haunt these Appalachian slopes 

And be our sovereign State's resplendent Flower, 
Beauteous as morning in thy roseate bloom, 
Strong as our mountains in enduring power ! 



25 



TO THE SUBMERGED ROCKS AND ISLANDS 
ON THE SUSQUEHANNA 

Farewell! ye wooded islands, never more 

Shall in your shade the Youth and Maiden woo! 
Ye rocks, that jutted from the rushing blue, 
Within whose eddies dripped the lover's oar, 

A last farewell! Ye currents that of yore 

Like maddened horses furious dashed, and threw 
Your white manes to the air, farewell to you! 
Forever mute your danger-luring roar! 

Here, as I drift, no rapture doth awake 

From hills or moving landscape, for my heart 
Lingers beneath where I was wont to roam; 

And memory sees, as on some sunken chart* 
Down in that inert bottom of the lake, 
The scarred old boulders yearning for the foam! 



26 



THE LATER GLOW 

The mind should ripen with the mellowing years, 
E'en as an Autumn tree. The evening sail 
Gathers the glow. Quest of the Holy Grail 
Is not for youth, untried by love and tears. 

Death's cataract roars, but still the poet hears 
Not Death's voice, but a voice beyond the veil; 
The gray wings of the Spirit do not quail, 
But throb for finer ether of the Spheres. 

Shall coming age deflower me by disuse ? 
Ah no! e'en as the rich exotic rose 
Flames Winter into June, so shall the Muse 

Beneficent, my season still prolong, — 
And glowing on my wintry days, disclose 
A later blooming of the flower of Song. 



27 



TWILIGHT BY THE DRUID'S STONE 

Day's heart was stabbed, and now the stain of red 
Smote on the promontory as a flood, 
Bathing the moorland in the misty blood 
Of sunset. Through the dusk I heard the tread 

Of hoary Druids, who the victim led 
To reeking altars in the ghostly wood; 
And all the weird and tremulant solitude 
Was thronged with visions of the ancient dead. 

There Priests I saw, white-robed, at mid of night. 
Sever the mistletoe with blade of gold; 
These wore the "serpent's egg/' assign of might, 

Made of the poisonous spittle of the snake; 
And some, the outcasts, unto whom none spake, 
Wandered, forever silent, near the fold. 



28 



THE SLEEPING ENDYMION 

RINEHART'S STATUE OVER HIS OWN GRAVE 

The moonlight, as a lover's lingering kiss 
Falls on his placid brow. In tender gloom 
The young, brown body glimmers from the tomb — 
Dim as a fading star . . . Rest — rest it is ; 

And oh, if sleep be beautiful as this 

What must the waking be! . . . No cares consume; 
With him is youth eterne, undying bloom, 
And thoughts unending of perennial bliss. 

The lips are parting, and we feel the breath 
A sweetness on the air . . . Will he arise 
And touch again his Dorian flute ? He seems 

Some fair immortal form of alien skies 
Abiding here, — a symbol, not of Death, 
But Sleep irradiate with desired dreams. 



29 



THE CHOSEN SITE 

Not on the headland cliff above the sea, 
Enforced to hear the sullen lion-roar 
Of caverend waves: not on the languid shore 
Where the palm-fringed sands reach endlessly 

Teased by the foam: not where the stunted tree 
Grapples the barren crag, while torrents pour 
Their veils of mist, and mountain eagles soar: 
Not e'en a heathery moorland home for me! 

But by the bouldered streamlet's lyric flow, 
Be my abode, whence, to the beetling crest. 
Infrequently at sunset I may stroll 

To hear the hill-top phantom bugles blow, 
And, for the moment, balm the troubled soul 
With unaccustomed splendors of the West. 



30 



BEYOND THE MAIN 

1 CLOSE my eyes, and from the hills of home 

View Italy again: the fallen frieze; 

The templed vales and haunts of Dryades; 

The vast campagna and the looming dome; 
The wraith that lingers o'er a vanished Rome, — 

All rise in glamour flushed with memories; 

And from the Ischian Isles the Neriad-seas 

Call to my youth across the syren foam. 

The air is tremulous with a spirit-tone 

Of by-gone lyres. I hear the phantom throng: 
The rhythmic thunder of the Mantuan's lines; 

Lorn Petrarch sighing in the Appenines; 
And as he treads Ravenna's pave, alone, 
Again the Tuscan chants his deathless song. 



31 



BY HER DEAR HAND 

While ranging far in the Pierian sky, 

Sudden some Power smote me with a sword 
Whose flame of blackness quenched my every word, 
And cast me helpless where the stricken lie; 

Hope fled afar, — it seemed my fate to die; 
On the gray air my pleadings I outpoured, — 
No promise echoed back — no answering chord. 
And Death on ashen wing was hovering nigh. 

Then that dear Spirit who loved me at my birth, — 
Who solaced life with her melodious tone, — 
Broke throughthegloom, and stoodlikewinged Dawn; 

Seeing me crushed, she left her airy throne, 
And, as a sister, led me back to Earth, 
When dreams returned that for a space had gone. 



32 



O LINGER YET 

Rose-bloom and lilies that no frost can kill; 
Visions of youthful grace that yet persist; 
Maidens with pleading arms at twilight tryst, 
Ye were the lures that made the young heart thrill: 

For you the passion, unrequited still; 

O vanished lips that loved us, never kissed. 
Only the worn heart knows what it hath missed — 
How Heaven itself can not that dream fulfill! 

Dear wraiths of Maidens bearing fragrant urns 
Exhaling incense of remembered years 
When we, in shadowy walks of woodland ferns 

Poured out our first-love in those tender vows, 
Ah, linger yet, as fast our twilight nears. 
Oh, cheer the heart where embered fire burns ! 



33 



O PRESENT LIFE 

The world is filled with beauty; 'tis a rose 

That wafts its fragrance through the air around, 
As each day bursts — a flower from underground — 
To fold into itself at evening's close. 

This ache of loveliness is sweet to those 
Who, life-long, suffer some intemporal wound ; 
The morn is consolation, and the night, profound, 

. Offers her starlit spaces of repose. 

Enough for me the usual day unrolled. 
Though the long road be dimmed with dust of care,— 
Though Love be flown on pinions dawn-empearled: 

O Present-Life, chalice of things most fair, 
Leave me not yet — not yet — all unconsoled, 
And sad with promise of a better world. 



34 



WHITHER 

Shall He, the chargers of Whose chariots are 
Suns and their systems shod with effluence, — 

Shall He not know the pathway of our star 
And through the ages guide it surely thence? 

Shall He not drive the chariots of the Worlds 
To reach at last their predetermined goals, 

Where, past the endless aeons, still unfurls 
Elysium longed for by our trembling souls? 

God, the Worlds' Gardener, sees within earth's halls 
Life as a bud that flowers but in To Be; 

His will is as a lamp that lights the walls 
Down the dim canons of Eternity. 



35 



NOVEMBER PASSES 

Her torch, once flaming, is inverted low, 
And withered beauty follows in her trail; 
Her voice drifts faintly from the leafless dale, 
And ghastly pallor crowns that beauteous brow; 

For she, who on each waiting woodland bough, 
Hung gonfalons of crimson, through the vale 
Goes reft of splendor, wavering and frail. 
Yet queenly still, although dethroned now. 

I hear her sandals brush the fallen leaves 

In lonely valleys dim and far away; 

Her sceptre gone, she wanders o'er the plains 
Wrapped in her fluttering robes of hodden-gray; 

Ghost-like she passes where the lost wind grieves, - 

One with the spirit of lamenting rains. 



36 



THE LITTLE LADIES OF JAPAN 

IN A GARDEN OF TOKIO 

Sweet souls serene, whom nothing can embroil, 
Submissive, dutiful, who only know 
To serve and love and let the great world go,— 
Ye are the roses by the road of toil. 

Angelic Indolence! How true a foil 

To modern woman's ceaseless rush and show. 

Dear little Ladies of fair Tokio 

Better your languor than our loud turmoil. 

Ah, flowery-kirtled girls with cheeks of tan, 
You charm my days, and in my dreams, allure! 
Ye dusky maidens, daintily demure, 

In tiny gardens sipping cups of tea, — 
O cherry-blossom Daughters of Japan, 
Take the blown kiss now wafted o'er the sea. 



37 



AVENGED 



I SAW that dark soul in the moving throng; 

A sword leaped from mine eye; 
I slashed the bloodless mask who did me wrong, 

Blazed on her, and swept by. 

Then felt I as superb Aldabaran feels 

When, sudden, in the night 
A dead star passes, and in scorn he wheels, 

Spurning the corpse — with light. 



38 



WATER-CRESS 

AT A LITTLE DINNER IN PARIS 
Reminiscent of 1672 

Seeing the water-cress in Paris where 

We dine together, she alone and I — 
And she is charming with her breeding high! — 

I quite forget my lady debonair, 
Forget the silver glitter and the glare. 

The garcon fades ... A mist is in mine eye . . . 

Something is wrong, — and tho' the wine I try, 

Chateau Y quern is but v/n ordinaire. 

Ah me! Ah me! at home again I seem; 
Again with you I tread the Summer air 
And watch the sunlight kiss your glowing hair: 

Oh, let me have once more my golden dream, — 
You — sweetheart — y^ou, long lost, that with me there 
Waded for cresses in the Indian stream! 



39 



A WINTER SUNSET 

THE SUSQUEHANNA 

Far off the great stream held the blinding glare, — 
A line of bleak effulgence so intense 
It seemed to lift the River, and to bend 
The level radiance upward; while the woods. 

That rose between us and that blazing streak 
Were severed and dismembered, — cut across — 
By that long, horizontal sword of light. 
Which, made more dazzling by the river-ice. 

Hurled javelin flashes — scintillating darts 
Insufferably brilliant, blinding us; 
Then, turning from this flare, we faced the East, 

Not unamused by that mild, lesser orb, 
The troubled moon, plump faced, that doleful smiled 
Inanely toward us from a lilac sky. 



40 



FORGOTTEN 

The valiant deed, the glorious dream, 

Oblivion will enshroud: 
To life — a bubble on the stream — 

How brief the span allowed! 
Forgotten is the breath of Fame — 
Forgotten as a fading cloud. 

The glamour and the name. 

Forgotten as a last year's nest, 
Wherein the brooding dove 

Kept warm with beatings of her breast 
The firstlings of her love. 

For rapturous song, and burning word, 

And all the splendid fame thereof 
Will never more be heard. 

Forgotten as an orphan's grave 

That never knew a tear, 
Where lonely mountain grasses wave 

Among the brambles sere; 
Where e'en the homeless never walk, — 
The only thing that cometh near, 

The shadow of the hawk. 

41 



AFTER THE STORM 

The cloud-barred sunset, o'er the wooded height, 

Blazed on, 'mid rolling thunder; 
Then, with encrimsoned sword of dazzling light, 

Day slashed the woods asunder. 

Night fell: the squadrons of the sun were fled, — 

Gray ranks of warriors wounded; 
From far-off trumpets on that field of red 

Rout and defeat were sounded. 

But now the Moon, freed from her cloudy bars, 

In robes the heavens lend her. 
Appears as Peace among her pallid stars 

And silvers all with splendor. 



42 



A MAN'S SONG FROM THE WINTRY SHORE 

Two men abreast, and though touched with gray, 

Yet bouyant hearts have we; 
And we love the white-maned Horses' neigh 
As they romp along the sea! 

» 

When the petrel, blown by the tempest-wings, 

Beats up against the gale, 
And the syren-harp of the rigging sings, 
We thrill to the bellied sail. 

As we bend to the storm on the beach today 

No waft from the South crave we. 
But the crisp keen cut of the tingling spray 
And tang of the bitter sea! 

We laugh in the face of the blustering tide, 

Storm-beat, but a joyous pair, 
As we drink to the drones of the fireside 
In wine of the pungent air! 

43 



THE MORNING HOUR IN NEW YORK 

I, FROM the meadows of Song, 

Fresh from the clover dales, 
Am here 'mid the rushing throng. 

Regretting the fragrant vales. 

For there the spirit. Repose, 

Dwells in the shadowy pass; 
Beauty is there with her rose, — 

Leisure, a-dream in the grass. 

But yet, 'tis a heartening sight. 

It was wrong to repine. 
The rush has a touch of delight, 

And the fervor is fine! 

Oh, the Doers of Things are they, — 

No shirkers among them all. 
For Duty is calling to-day. 

And they surge to the call! 



44 



* 'SLOWLY THE SPLENDOR COMES" 

Faint music drifts among the Autumn boughs, — 
Some one is coming far across the leas 
Where haze makes dreamland of the fields, and bees 
Murmur the livelong day. The wading cows 

Move lazily along, or stop to browse; 

The orchard, from its golden-fruited trees, 
Spreads flickering shadows where the flocks, at ease, 
Rest in the shade and indolently drowse. 

And now, mid bronzing leaves, the silent jay 
Finds his lost bugle and salutes the air 
From tawny valleys rich with tented corn; 

Slowly the splendor comes, as far away, 
With grape-leaves wreathed in his sun-browned hair, 
October, loitering, winds a phantom horn. 



45 



THE STATUE 

How soiled the wreath which oft that strumpet, Fame, 
Puts on the brazen forehead of the base! 

Men lie, and plunder, and betray their race; 
Then the State's coffer raises to their name 

A statue, — let it mark eternal shame. 
And obloqu)^ dishonor and disgrace. 



THE WAR LORD 

The larks had nestlings; dreaming of no hurt, 
Joyous they thrilled their love-song overhead: 

Back to his watch, — savage, erect, alert, — 
The brigand Hawk returned with talons red. 



THE DEAD POET 

His heart, a hidden fountain, whence there ran 
Through the hushed tenor of reclusive days, 

Deep love of Nature, and the Soul of man, 
In stately song and in melodious lays. 

46 



THE LOCUST TREES IN BLOOM 

Afar along the winding way 

The towering Locusts grow, 
Where zephyrs shower the blossomed spray 

In flurries as of snow. 

'Neath airy galleries wove of light 

The lanes are all perfume, 
While in the blue the clustered white 

Makes miracles of bloom. 

As though some unseen Ariel-hand, 

To work a wonder rare, 
By magic of his elfin wand 

Strewed flowers in the air. 

And high, the bowery limbs among, 

A tanager is seen, 
A wayward troubadour whose song 

With love-notes thrills the green. 



47 



THE LOCUST TREES IN BLOOM 

And now, beneath the hum of bees, 

Within the quiet land, 
Two lovers meet beside the trees 

And wander, hand-in-hand. 

O tenderest time for old and young, 

Your voice is in mine ear; 
And gentlest Solace finds no tongue 

To stifle back the tear. 

To us, more precious is each hour, — 

The remnant dearer grows; 
'Twas Youth that spurned the dewy flower, 

We hoard the faded rose. 

Ye days of love and bloom, now gone. 

Ye bring a pang of pain. 
For if we walk, we walk alone 

Within the Locust lane! 



48 



OUR SAILORS' GRAVES 

CALIFORNIA MEMORIAL DAY 

I FLUSHED for shame, — I thought about his grave: 
No loved ones watch his mound with tender sighs; 
No place on earth for him who for us dies — 
Our patriot Sailor! Ah, how deck the brave 

Who slowly sink to some dim ocean cave! 

O where shall love, looking through Memory' s eyes, 
Strew flowers for him — for him who, drifting, lies 
Whelmed in the dark unfathomable wave? 

Take heart! our Sailors gone — that silent host 
Far from our sight — rest not ungarlanded; 
The Daughters of the West, each year in May, 

In tribute, far along the Golden Coast, 
Scatter fresh roses on the glorious Bay, 
And Ocean garlands every hero's head! 



49 



THE UNREVEALED 

The lure that hangs above the unseen heights 

Comes from the gathered mist. The unknown sea 
Enthralls us by her vast profundity; 
It is the cryptic which the soul invites: 

The Muse ascends in her immortal flights 
To wing the borders of infinity: — 
Mother of all the Faiths, thou, Mystery, 
The sealed fountain of divine delights! 

Shall man dissect the violet? Must we tear 
The precious rose of poesy apart 
That it reveal its beauty? Shall we wear 

Outside our breast the bruised human heart 

Nor veil the sacred fount? . . . Oh, rather shroud 
The poet's meaning in the golden cloud! 



50 



THE PAINTING 

What makes the painting foremost of its kind? 

Color and composition nobly planned, — 
The falcon vision of the brooding mind, — 

Then swift precision of the brain-led hand. 

THE LURE 

That fine, diurnal wheel the spider weaves 
Is like the web Hope spins for men: 

When Fate, each morn, no vestige of it leaves, 
Hope spins the subtle lure again. 

THE SOLEMNITES 

When joy arrives their faces show no flash 
Of happiness, but still are draped in gloom, 

As, in the Spring, with trees in snowy bloom, 
Come the black blossoms of the Ash. 



51 



THE LAST SONG OF RAMON DE MIROVAL, 
TROUBADOUR 

Though long my youth hath flown, and now 

The gloaming darkly gleams, 
I feel the morning flush my brow 

From out the dale of dreams. 

Though lone I wander far and wide, 

A Presence near me seems, 
A gentle wraith is by my side 

Born in the vale of dreams. 

A spirit calls me from afar 

Across the phantom streams 
And beckons as the morning star 

Above the dale of dreams. 

My twilight comes; the night is near, 

Yet brightly memory beams. 
And brings again the smile — the tear 

From out the vale of dreams. 

Though youth is dead, yet in the^heart 

The morning rapture gleams; 
My spirit dwells with one apart 

Within the dale of dreams. 

52 



THE DRIZZLING DAY 

I WALK the glistening porch, but all in vain 

Hope for the sun. Drip — drip from oaken sprays, 
While every bole grows darker in the haze. 
And lyric spouts announce their low complain. 

The downward smoke that leaves the rumbling train 
Hugs the dimmed hill. Through veils of misty grays 
I see the distant herd contented graze 
In dull indifference to the dismal rain. 

I feel the leaden time; I need the cheer, — 
Even the solemn cheer of setting suns; 
Yet still the mind on brighter prospects runs: 

If skies are dark, lo, to the shrine I turn; — 
Doth not the torch of song forever burn 
Within the minstrel's home, though days are drear? 



53 



STARLIGHT BY THE SEA 

I DEEMED the rose of morning-twilight sweet, 

That blossoms but to fade, 
I loved the noon-day shimmering o'er the wheat. 

Seen from the beechen shade. 

The clarions of the sunset called me there 

To watch through tranced hours, 
The conflagration and the dying flare 

Of cloudy Trojan towers. 

Now, by the Sea, I troth my soul to Night, 

My bride shall be a star, 
Her lure shall lift me to her winged height 

Beyond the phantom bar. 



54 



AT THE DAY'S END 

The evening sky is golden 
Along the mountain rim, 

And all the wild-wood olden 
Is growing dusk and dim. 

What rapturous notes are soaring 
Above the underbrush? .... 

It is the soul outpouring 
Of some love-mated thrush. 

Such love is his to send her, 
So touching and so dear — 

So sweet — so wild — so tender 
It pains the heart to hear! 

The West burns down to embers; 

The song sinks faint and low; 
And the lonely heart remembers 

A twilight long ago! 

55 



ON BEING INVITED TO WINTER IN 
CALIFORNIA 

Our boyhood's River here from shore to shore 

With unrelenting ice is bound; 
The wind, by islands where we ranged of yore, 

Howls like a famished hound 

Your letter bids me to your orange groves 
With aureate splendor bending low, 

And lures to azure inlets and to coves 
Of more than sapphire glow; 

Entices me to orchards where one sees 
The turbaned Hindoo, lithe and mute, 

Perched in the branches of your olive-trees 
Picking the purpled fruit; 



56 



ON BEING INVITED TO WINTER IN CALIFORNIA 

A clime where one may pass the livelong day 

'Mid fragrance of December flowers, 
With wandering airs of ozone from the Bay 
To vivify the hours; 

Where you can see each blushing sunrise peep 
Above the cloud-born waterfall; — 

Each evening watch the belfry-shadows creep 
Up the adobe wall; 

Far off, the canon and the cliff are yours 
Where the undaunted eagles reign, — 

Yours, where the Mesa rises and allures 
Above the endless plain; 

While I, through frosted windows, see the hills 

Whiten beneath my sunset view; 
On bloomless paths beside the frozen rills 

My thoughts return to you: 



57 



ON BEING INVITED TO WINTER IN CALIFORNIA 

Summer is yours, but mine the Winter drear; 

You breathe the flower; I tread the snows; 
Yet I, in spirit, from the sunset here 

Shall pluck the crimson rose; 

And oft in crystal meadows I shall wade 
Through prism-colors of the sleet, — 

Through briery upland pastures where each blade 
Drops jewels round the feet; 

To me will float the red-bird's whistle clear 
From snow-bent branches of the fir, 

And, footing through the thicket, I will hear 
The startled pheasant whirr. 

The wave-like snow-drifts by the straggling fence 
Shall charm the sight, and seeing these, 

In my imagination I shall sense 
The surge of Arctic seas: 

58 



ON BEING INVITED TO WINTER IN CALIFORNIA 

To me the mile-wide River which unfurls 

Its skating surface to our ken, 
With joyous bevies of our beauteous girls, 

Will bring my youth again: 

To me the Christmas holly in our dells 

Will bend her scarlet berries low, 
And moonlight laughter mixed with sleighing bells 

Will drift across the snow: 



Such slender consolation will be mine. 
Brother, while we are kept apart, 

Feeling, across the miles, my hand in thine. 
Thy heart beside my heart. 



59 



DEFEATED 

Like one he was who, bleeding from the strife, 
Pleads at the Refuge-City's barriered gate; 

His was a wound, made by the sword of Life, 
Kept open by the thrusts of Fate, 

Talent was his, and yet he could not brook 

The stronger wing that reached the higher cloud; 
And rather than be less, he rashly took 
The life whose garland proved a shroud: 

As though a star — some late-created World — 
Angered at God because of lessened light. 

Should dash itself to Chaos, and be hurled 
Back into starless voids of night. 



60 



THE RELENTLESS ONE 

Across the West the angry clouds are torn, — 
Their scattered fragments streak the livid sky; 

On the wide river, by the blizzard borne, 
The scudding white-caps fly. 

Upon the eaves the cold has hung his spears 
Where late the ivied sparrows held their choir; 

Sharp on the bleak ridge of the hill appears 
The dagger of the spire. 

With wolf-pelts wrapped about his shaggy head, 
And body swathed in pallid, arctic hides, 

Lo, o'er the white, with stealthy, polar-tread, 
The Savage, — Winter, — strides! 



61 



IMPRISONED 

The sunny porch is with leaf-shadows strewn, 
Where in forced leisure, I myself console, 
Watching the birds about the wooded knoll: 
The meadow-lark from some dim woodland flown 

To plaint for me its old remembered tone; 
The flying sunrise of the oriole; 

• Flickers whose harp is in each hollow bole; 
And love, like sorrow, in the gray dove's moan. 

But most I prize the oft returning wren, — 

Whose pleasant racket used to haunt my door, — 
That now in April, comes to me again: 

Audacious Midget! that, if not in sight, 

Sends her small shadow flying o'er the floor, 
Builds as she chatters, while I strive to write. 



62 



AN EVENING AT LITITZ 

Beneath the trees the old swing's ample seat, 
Freighted with maids demure, sways to and fro; 
One maiden to herself sings soft and low, 
And in the shadows here the stifling heat 

Lessens, while by the public fountain, meet 
Worn men, and tired horses, moving slow. 
Yet eager for the cooling streams which flow 
From yon blue hills beyond the fields of wheat. 

While sinks the sun, the bending toilers move 
Homeward along the quiet, leafy way; 
And now the moon amid the boughs is hung: 

It is the evening of the Sacred Play, 

And the grave people gather in the grove, 
Where the old Bible Story will be sung. 



63 



BEFORE DAYBREAK 

The snow-birds flutter in the shocks of corn 
And loose the icy spangles in their flight; 

The hamlet slumbers in the frosted morn 
And all the roofs are white. 

The sheeted steeples of the village stab 
The pallid light above the coming glow, 

While the hushed valley, lying dim and drab, 
Pales with its pall of snow. 

And high aloft, the crows, a hurrying crowd. 
Catch, as they wing, the earliest glint of day. 

Which tips the engine's upward-rolling cloud 
Of elephantine gray. 

But now the bright and all-revealing Sun 
Our realm of mystery and dream invades. 

Shatters the web which dearest Fancy spun 
And lo, the glamour fades! 

64 



REMBRANDT 

HUDSON-FULTON EXHIBITION — 1909 
NEW YORK 

How slight, how vacuous all the moderns seem 
By thy dark splendors! Lo, these works of thine 
Have bridged oblivion, and thy name entwine 
With fame eterne,— Lord of the brush supreme! 

Others but limned the surface, — thy demesne — 
The inviolate sanctum of the inner shrine: 
Beneath the form thou saw'st the soul divine, 
O painter of the Spirit's brooding Dream. 

Artist beloved! who dawned so gloriously, 
Thy star in sorrow set, — thy evening here 
Was dimmed — neglect and penury thy part; 

But Glory, bending, brings her palms to thee. 
Poet, who in the lowliest human heart 
Discerned the pathos and divined the tear. 



65 



' THE WORLD'S TRANSIENT GUEST 

He is not ours, for heaven has only lent 

His presence here, whose heart is seamed with scars 

Made by renunciations, and the wars 

Waged with the World wherein the soul is pent. 

He treads our paths, but still his gaze is bent 
On Him whose glance through Chaos lit the stars. 
These mortal years are but as prison-bars 
That keep him from the skies in discontent. 

He hears the cryptic clarion's far appeals 
To scale the heights of being, and to drink 
From founts .that mystics only, have divined: 

In trance, he trembles on the crystal brink 
Of spirit revelation, while he feels 
Immortal pinions springing in the mind. 



66 



"SHE WAS A BREATH OF SPRINGTIME' 



She was a breath of springtime — 

The violet's dim perfume 
She brought a sense of purity, 

Of beauty and of bloom. 

Her hair was as the chestnut, 
Her cheek the mountain rose; 

Her neck was like the lily white 
That in seclusion grows. 

She seemed of youth so vibrant 

A joy to heart and eye — : 
To look at her, one scarce could think 

Such loveliness could die. 



67 



SHE WAS A BREATH OF SPRINGTIME 



But a sorrow fell upon me 
When I saw her in her shroud, 

As on the hills of summer 
Falls the shadow of a cloud; 

And when I think of all she was- 
Her sweet and gentle ways, 

Oh, the shadow darkly deepens 
Round the sunset of my days! 



68 



so SANG AN ENGLISH POET 

The Spring had come, and cherry-trees were white; 
The lawn was vocal with their warbled words, — 
That joyful trouble of the building birds, — 
A garrulous music round each nesting site; 

Yet I was sad, my mind on lost delight. 

On death of loved ones and on Youth grown old; 
And said, as flickers rose on wings of gold: — 
"So blessings brighten as they take their flight"! 

Thus once an English poet, not in vain, — 
Sang of the pathos of the parting pain, 
His voice all tremulous with unbidden tears: 

Alas! how few things of our twilight day 
Grow golden as they fade from us away, — 
Enaureoled by the consuming years. 



69 



BALBOA IN PANAMA 
1513 A. D. 

Alone I reach the summit, — Has the glare 

Dazzled my sight, or am I stunned and dazed? 
Can yon wide plain be water? God be praised! — 
An Ocean! 'tis an Ocean — blue as air! 

Flash forth the swords! Let the shrill bugle blare! 
Plant here our flag that never shall be razed. 
Bring up my men, — the sick — the fever-crazed: 
NowComrades, doff the casque and kneel in prayer. 

For, by my faith, our day's work in this zone 
Makes us immortal. Fame shall trumpet me 
Beyond the meager verges of the Known. 

So, from this peak, in proud humility, 

This vast wave-turquois — this cerulean sea — 
Gem-like, I lay before Espana's throne. 



70 



THE SHADOWY CITY LOOMS 

NEW YORK FROM THE NORTH RIVER 

In deepening shades the haunting vision swims: 

A denser grayness settles o'er the stream; 
The domes are veiled; the wondrous City dims- 
Dims as a dream: 

The night transforms it to a palace vast 

Lit with a thousand lamps from cryptic wires; 
The vaporous walls are phantoms of the Past, 
Strange with vague spires: 

Huge, peopled monoliths that touch the skies, 

Whose indeterminate bases baffle sight; 
Each with its Argus, incandescent eyes 
Pierces the night: 



71 



THE SHADOWY CITY LOOMS 



Undreamt-of heights of glimmering marble loom 

Like some enchanted fabric wrought of air; 
Gigantic shafts of insubstantial gloom 
Lift, shadowy, there: 

Could fabled Camelot of the poet's dream 

Surpass these towers soaring from the mist? — 
These steel-ribbed granite miracles that gleam 
Dim amethyst? . , . 

Slow on the tide, from murky coves remote, 

The freighted barges move, laboriously, 
While some palatial, golden-lighted boat 
Steams for the sea: 



72 



THE SHADOWY CITY LOOMS 



Now that the moon is breaking through the cloud 

The radiant halo o'er the city pales; 
Shimmer the dusky wharves with mast and shroud 
And furled sails: 

Soft strains of music, hovering, drift away; 

In cloudy turrets toll the spectral bells; 
While the sea-voices, from the wastes of gray. 
Send faint farewells: 

The homing sloops are sheltered in the slip; 
The silence deepens; and up-stream, afar, 
A fading lantern on an anchored ship 
Seems a lost star. 



73 



''AS EVENING LOWERS" 

And was it true, or but some splendid dream — 
That pageant of the dawn, whose glittering spears 
Routed the cohorts of ephemeral fears. 
Throning proud Youth triumphant and supreme? 

Why did no trumpet's monitory scream 

Warn us of wounds, and of the surge of tears? . . . . 
Ah, now, as evening lowers, and twilight nears. 
How faint and far those fields of morning seem! 

Well, let the fair auroral phantoms go; 

We thank the mirage that it led to light; 

We thank defeat for these resplendent scars: 
Now, after sunset — night, but through the night. 

Shall not the dreamer in the darkness know 

The solace and communion of the stars? 



74 



A SONG BY THE MISTY SEA 

O THE glare of the sun on the dazzling waves 

And the blinding line of white, — 
They are not for me, for the spirit craves 

The lure of the lessened light. 

When the evening dies to a flower of gray, 

Or the lily of morning pales; 
When the mist comes drifting over the Bay 

To shroud the moving sails; 

When the dunes grow dim as the wing of the gulls 

That flit o'er the ashen sea; 
When the grayness grows and the glory dulls — 

Ah, that is the time for me! 



75 



THEN DEATH REPLIED 

O THROBBING Life! away beyond the strife, — 
Beyond the toil, when all the dream is o'er,— 
What shall betide? 
Shall effort end in mystery and fear, 

As foot-prints, leading to a river wide. 
That show their impress on the nearer shore 

But disappear 
And are not found upon the farther side? 
Then Death to me replied; 
But of his utterance, veiled, I could not hear 

Or understand a tithe. 
Because of the insatiate roar 

Made by his ruthless scythe. 



76 



A WAYSIDE WEED IN BLOOM 

Musing, I said, "Now that the summer's blaze 
Has dimmed the teeming blossoms of the meads 
And dulled the lilies by the lyric reeds, 
Few flowers are left. Barren are all the ways." 

Then, 'mid a straggling growth of browns and grays, 
The blue of heaven bloomed — weed among weeds — 
Yet pure delight it brought me, and I needs 
Must claim it as a Flower through all my days. 

O spirit of April in the fading year — 

Sweet harbinger of far celestial birth! 

Thou bear' St a message we may not ignore, 
For while the tiger Hates of Europe roar. 

Thou, by thine azure, bring' st the sky anear, 

To show a little of heaven is still on earth. 



77 



OF AN AGED POET 



Now, the Poet olden 
Sings no more his song; 

Like a shrunken brooklet 
Mute he moves along; 

Like a Winter garden 
When its work is done,- 

All the beds and borders 
Bloomless in the sun; 

But in regions fairer, 
By the lilied streams. 

Many a margin trembles 
To his lyric dreams. 



78 



SAPPHO TO PHAON 

ON THE LESBIAN HEADLAND 
iSAPPHIC] 

We together, high o'er the shadowy water, 
Thou and I — the wings of the sea-gulls near us, — 
Smoulder with love; — I am the burning daughter 
Favored of Eros. 

Lovely Phaon! ah, thou art fairer, younger; 
Such the barbed spear darted by Time to hurt me; 
Wearied at last; sick of my endless hunger, 
Thou wilt desert me. 

Then a maiden, dove-like and humbly duteous. 
She, ah, some day, she with her bloom will take thee; 
Were I fair as Venus, or still more beauteous 
Thou wouldst forsake me! 

Better to leap far in the depths of ocean. 
Sheer from cliff-edge down to the dreaded Kraken, 
There to forget utterly all emotion, 
Than live forsaken! 



79 



TIMOTHY COLE, ENGRAVER 

Artist, whose life with rare production teems, 
Beneath thy burin how the picture glows! 
The painter's work, oft fading as the rose, 
Blooms on thy block again, and mirrored seems. 

FromRaphael's grace to Rembrandt's shadowy gleams, 
A sumptuous pageant still thy genius shows, — 
The long procession eminent, that goes 
Adown the glimmering gallery of Dreams. 

Old Durer would have ta'en thee to his heart: 
Thy work — a beacon on the hills of Fame; 
Though richly laureled, let our tribute wreathe 

Thy brow, O master of the graver's art, i 

As we, who worship Beauty, place thy name 
First amongthosewho makethebox-woodbreathe. 



80 



WHEN LOVE WAS BORN 

After the morning and the evening blushed 

Obedient to His rod, 
'Tvvas then the daring thought of Adam flushed 

The veiled brow of God; 

But ere the maiden-mother of the race 

In His mind lay unfurled, 
Whose beauty, later, for a moment's space 

Made God forget His world, 

The sullen Earth was as an iron lyre 

With leaden chords forlorn; 
The air was empty of all tense desire, — 

E'en Hope had not been born: 

Then she, whose coming thrilled the ether through 

Where all before was dearth, 
Dropt like a roseate star in Eden dew — 

And Love was on the Earth. 



81 



WILLIAM UHLER HENSEL 

OBIT. FEBRUARY, I915 

What shall we say of him whose words of weight 
Swayed his rapt hearers, and whose Attic phrase 
Charmed at the board all guests in happier days? 
'Tis now "Bleak House"indeed! — where once, elate, 

He showered hospitality, till fate 

Called him beyond the chorus of our praise — 
Him whose broad intellect, in a thousand ways, 
Brought honor to his region and the State. 

The highest eulogies, when all is said. 
Are futile still, and show him but in part. 
Yet I would pay some homage to the dead: 

Let me, recalling through that life of stress 
The unfailing fountain of his kindliness. 
Offer my tribute to his golden heart. 



82 



ON THE WINTER PORCH 

The chill rain ended, gloomy was the world; 
No beauty dwelt within the leaden hours; 
And then a change, — the gorgeous sinking sun, 
So truly mirrored on the dripping porch. 

Transformed the floor to some resplendent lake 
Of aureate refulgence. Through that gold 
I walked, as on a solid sea, and saw 
God shower His jewels of the Apocalypse — 

Spalls from the twelve foundations radiant — 
Within the burning furnace of the West, 
Where all these molten gems, there fusing, blazed 

Unutterable splendor .... Then the Day 
Paled unto death, yet on her Phoenix-pyre 
The embers crimsoned with the dream of Dawn 



83 



THE PREMONITION 

A SPIRIT touched me as I slept, and said: 
"I hear the Host of Desolation choir 
The dirge for kingdoms that shall soon expire; 
Portents of ill resound, and thunders dread: 
Moans of the wounded, prayers for legions dead; 
Crash of cathedrals, roar of towns afire; 
Reft sweethearts wailing o'er the burial pyre; 
And grief of orphans by wan mothers led. 

Peace, with her bleeding wings, flew off afar, 
Above the oceans dimmed with battle smoke; 
I heard her weeping for this world of woe; 

'Poor, purblind world,* she wept." Then I awoke. 
And, yearning, asked,"Oh,when shall rise His star, 
That trembled over Bethlehem long ago?" 



84 



C^ D M O N 

High on the cliff the monastery gleamed; 
Far off there lay the glimmer of the sea; 
And on the rolling headland, musingly, 
The cowherd, Caedmon, watched a cloud and dreamed; 

A poet mute he was, whose lips still seemed 
Untouched by fire divine, — but, suddenly, 
Song surged within him to an ecstasy. 
Flamed in his soul, and forth the numbers streamed. 

Thou Saxon Bard! silent so many a day, 
Who lauded Man and Nature in thy lay, 
Rise from thy crypt, and in o'erwhelming wrath 

Scathe our degenerate World — a world of graves, — 
Whose human harvest shows one scarlet path. 
While dreadful Death incarnadines the waves. 



85 



YE VENGEFUL KINGS 

When Death, the silent, to the world descends 
With muffled wings, the aged hear their knell; 
'*After Life's fitful fever they sleep well," 
For aged life and Death have long been friends: 

But when a slaughtering Nation, heartless, sends 
The flower of Youth to face War's furious hell, — 
Youth, made for hope and love, — oh, who shall tell 
The pang and after-anguish this portends! 

Youth, the beloved of heaven, — the precious rose 
Most beauteous in the garden of the world. 
The crowning glory from the hand of God; 

Ye vengeful Kings! mark how the red stream flows, 
And cower to think — your war-flags still unfurled — 
With what inviolate blood you stain the sod! 



86 



THE CRIMSON SWATH 

I HEAR a threnode sweep the skies of war 
Where great archangels from the void of night 
Drop pitying tears, as soft they take their flight, 
Above the vanquished and the conqueror. 

The charnel trenches reek with clotted gore. 

The rose of Earth — dear Youth — now dies in fight; 
The Heart of Mercy shudders at the sight, 
And frenzied Europe seems one abattoir. 

The storming bugles scarce begin to blow, 

And yet the quivering grass is crimson-steeped, 
And mangled legions will in anguish writhe; 

Man trembles at immeasurable woe. 
As on the mad World's scarlet field is heaped 
The swath of Death's insatiable scythe! 



87 



TO PHILADELPHIANS DURING THE BELGIAN 
RELIEF CAMPAIGN 

As SOME rich Baron on a wintry shore, 

Standing 'mid coffers bulging with his gold, 
And with great argosies of wealth untold, 
Hears, oversea, their anguish who implore 

Aid ere they starve, then straightway from his store 
Supplies their wants, yet heeds not his own fold, — 
His famished people huddled in the cold, — 
Nor feels the destitution at his door; 

So ye, rich givers to an alien land. 

With princely hoard of silver and of wheat, 
Sent grain-ships far across the ocean foam; 

Freely you gave, nor saw the bread-line stand 
Famished and shivering on your city street. 
Nor knew Beneficence begins at home. 



88 



THE EMERGENCY AID COMMITTEE OF 
PHILADELPHIA 

But now your City, in the spirit of Penn, 

Comes to the rescue with unfaltering zeal; 

Your noble women make their strong appeal 

Unto the pitying tenderness of men; 
Rich purses open, and the citizen 

Pours out his bounty for the commonweal; 

Ah, Quaker City! now, in you, we feel 

The Good Samaritan has come again! 
To-day you succor first your own oppressed. 

And when your people wake, relief is sure; 

Children, with timid faces filled with light, 
Drop in the tube their little hoarded mite; 

And e'en the needy come with coin — thrice blessed 

Who give to others while themselves are poor! 



89 



THE WAR AGAINST CIVILIZATION 

Our pity for the ignorant soldier slain 

In reeking swaths before the cannonade; 

For all the thoughtless ranks, by shell and blade 

Strewn by the thousands on the sickening plain; 
This is but cause for mitigable pain; 

But, Oh, the dreadful movement retrograde! 

Grief for the world's great thinkers unafraid, — 

The decimation of the men of brain! 
True heroes of the Kingdom of the Mind, 

For loss of these the world with woe is fraught; 

This vanguard of the millions; they who seek 
Progress, and betterment of all mankind; 

Who, eager on the Future's frontier peak, 

With golden clarions sound the march of thought; 



90 



ULTIMATE BROTHERHOOD 

Shall Force alone enslave the World anew? 
Now man no longer listens to the Word, 
But serves the red puissance of the Sword: 
Our million-slaying Masters — they who drew 

This horror on us, — make the cave-man's crew 
Seem beatific; but can we afford 
To turn the world into a slaughter-horde, 
And to our long advancement bid adieu? 

Ah, Peace, at last shall bear her perfect flower; 
With faith in Man's great Brotherhood, re-nerved 
We stand, foreseeing victory for the soul; 

Though Russia, with Enccladean power, 
Like some stupendous glacier, unobserved, 
Move through the centuries, to her baleful goal. 



91 



THE PROGRESS OF PEACE 

The cannon roared, and deafening was the sound, 
When that grim Rider of the Pale Horse led 
The plunging squadrons till their hoofs were red. 
Where the charged wires left a heaping mound 

Of writhing wounded, there the Gatlings ground 
Infernal horror, and with fury fed 
The maw of Havoc; then, in awful dread. 
The wounded saw the surgeons probe the wound. 

The ocean mine the armored ship benurribs, 
And lydite shells, with suffocating breath. 
Swirl the crews down in agony untold: 

The sea, — a wandering cave of prowling bombs; 
The air, — a flying arsenal of death; 
And man, — the "food for powder," as of old. 



92 



MIDNIGHT AT THE TOMB OF GRANT 

RIVERSIDE DRIVE, N. Y. 

O Warrior, art thou troubled in thy tomb 
As far off cannon-thunders reach thine ear? 
Thy very dust should quiver now to hear 
The anguish rising where the death-clouds loom: 

O generous Victor, in that marble gloom, — 

Thou who spoke seldom, — from that dwelling drear 
Speak thou with clarion tone, — proclaim it clear 
That hell-born Carnage now shall meet its doom: 

Rise from thy crypt to mount thy phantom steed, 
And like some ghostly and gigantic Knight 
Throned on this summit in the moon's weird light, 

Let thy voice sound across encrimsoned seas; 
Warn the mad World, and with the Nations plead 
For lasting concord — universal peace! 



93 



LANDSEER'S PAINTING— ''PEACE " 

Lo! Time hath soothed the headland with its green; 

The olden fortress crumbles on the steep; 

Far off the dim sea lies in halcyon sleep, 

Forgetting all the slaughter it hath seen. 
Here, with her child the mother rests serene, 

Where languid Evening folds her drowsy sheep; 

Here Peace abides, as when, in cloisters deep. 

The latria rises round the Nazarene. 

Lands where our rugged forbears first drew breath! 
In this red slaughter, this, your hour extreme, — 
We pray for peace from out the North and South: 

When shall be sheathed the crimson blade of Death? 
When shall the lambs — as in the painter's dream — 
Nibble the blossoms from the cannon's mouth? 



94 



SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENT 

Fair cities tremble as war's aeroplane 

Crashes cathedrals with the plunging shell; 

Now the sweet heavens are turned to skies of hell, 

Gomorrah-like, with sheets of fiery rain. 

All Europe, agonizing, groans in pain: 

The mangled glut the trenches; where'they fell 
No churchyard waits the dead, — no immortelle, — 
Since harvest-fields are heaped with patriot-slain. 

There, where the battery swerved in frantic speed. 
Lay shrieking wounded, mashed by hoof and wheel; 
Mercy for them? — Yes, from the bayonet-steel! 

Death, gloating, hovers o'er the battle brunt; 

Slaughter en masse! and then, the charnel need, — 
Long trains of quick-lime hurried to the front. 



95 



THE GOD OF BATTLES 

Each warring nation importunes Thy throne 
With fervent prayer, storming th' inviolate gates; 
Lo! at the shrine the suppliant priest awaits 
Thy favor to his country — his alone. 

Only to Thee the victor is foreknown: 

Yet though the prayer from Emperors, Kings and States 
Rises like incense, the unheeding Fates, 
Austere, weave on with obdurate hearts of stone. 

Still o'er the battle Death's gray wings descend, 
Awful with scarlet, and our cherished dreams 
Of Peace dissolve . . .We pause in numbed suspense: 

Baffled we gaze; we cannot comprehend 

A God who views the carnage, and yet seems 
The Spirit of supreme Indifference. 



96 



THE AWAKENING 

What occult alchemy the brown Earth shows 
As Spring is coming! and the Spirit waits 
The gorgeous opening of the ruby gates 
That flood the world with blossoms like the rose: 

With jonquils rich as sunset when it glows 
Golden amid dim clouds, for Earth creates 
From lowliest things, Beauty that never sates, 
But flowers her lonely path where e'er she goes. 

And they whose torch of life is burning low, — 
Whom fate has left along the desolate road, — 
Whom Youth and Love deserted long ago. 

E'en these, as May returns, lift up their load 
Almost with hope, — ignoring even pain, — 
And with strange faith look forward once again. 



97 



INSATIATE MONSTER 

Again we hear thy stirring bugles blow, 
O god of Battles! Now the sands are red 
Where treachery strews the desert with our dead, 
And dying throats are parched in Mexico; 

Was not our War — that deep fraternal blow — 

Whenbrothers' blood for conscience sake was shed— 
WhendauntlessYouth in countless thousands bled— 
Was not that crime an all-sufficient Woe? 

Demon of battles! is thy maw not filled 
With old-world slaughter, that thy jaws, accurst, 
Lust for our ranks as tigers roar for food? 

Insatiate art thou till all men are killed? 

Monster, forbear! nor slake thy crimson thirst 
On peaceful fields untainted now by blood! 

June 28, 19 1 6 



98 



AGE 

O KEEP a little longer far away, 

Ye hurrying months, onrushing,and ye years; 
Touch not our temples with your saddening gray, 
Give us some time for smiling through our tearsl 

Keep from our locks your devastating shears; 
And if we must forget, ah, well-a-dayl 
Let us forget old sorrows and old fears, 
And let our hearts remember but the May. 

Ah, age, dread age, how little dost thou bring! 
E'en as far off thou com'st, thy presence fills 
The soul with apprehension of thine ills: — 

Cold strips of life left to us, lingering 

Like those drear streaks of Winter seen in Spring — 
Soiled snowdrifts on the northern side of hills. 



99 



MORITURI SALUTAMUS 

In leafless woods, when the first sap of Spring 
Tingles within the branches, bare and drear. 
The Beech still holds its foliage, pale and sere, — 
The myriad leaves that all-defiant cling; 

Days warmer grow; arrive the song and wing; 
Then on the Beech th' exultant buds appear. 
Forcing the old leaves off, — their fate is clear; 
And life-scarred hearts shrink from this hinted thing. 

The fierce impulsion of the bud, insooth. 

Dashes our dream of perpetuity; 

We dreamt we were immutable, but now 
We feel the new leaves push us from the bough: 

Proud in defeat, we flash these words at Youth: 

"Lo! we salute you, we, about to die!" 



100 



TO THE SPIRIT OF POESY 



Spirit serene, that ever com'st to me 

I 
With soul-refreshing, purifying power. 

Teach me the language I may speak to thee. 
Here in the holy hush of evening's hour. 

Then let me tell how once I burned to grace 
Thy forehead with some lyric trophy meet, 

And now regret that I can only place 
A garland so unworthy at thy feet! 

From Lyric* by J. Houtton Mifflin, 1 835 



102 



Notes 

PAGE 

7. Blank verse in sonnet-form, on Tennyson's death. 

8. The peculiar sea-like effect of rolling slopes of waving rye has 

never, to my knowledge, been adequately painted. The 
sight is a most beautiful one, and I have captured it in 
verse many times. 

16. From the Mid-West Quarterly, to which credit is here given 
for permission to reprint. 

18. A sonnet with a refrain. 

20. My Peach-Orchard in bloom. 

22. The curves of a stream tend to conserve its banks. 

25. After much discussion the Mountain Laurel (Kalmia Latifolia) 
was not accepted as the State Flower of Pennsylvania. 

29. Published in the Century Magazine with an illustration of 
Rinehart's grave-stone, in Baltimore. Credit and thanks 
for permission to reprint are here tendered the Century 
Company. 

36, Written July, 1916. 

37. Perhaps it may be well to state that the Author never visited 

Japan. 

40. Blank verse in sonnet-form. 

47, The Locust Tree has been ignored in American painting and 
poetry. I have several times written of its peculiar 
beauty and fragrance when in bloom. 

67. Stanzas after the death of a dear sister. 



NOTES 

PAGE 

71. This poem appeared in Scribner's Magazine, credit, and 
thanks for permission to reprint are here given. 

77. The blue chickory — (Chicorium Intybus). Inscribed to the late 
William Uhler Hensel. 

84. Here follow a few sonnets from a series on the present Eu- 

ropean War. The series was soon abandoned, as the 
horrors grew too terrible to contemplate. 

85. The Abbey enclosing the tomb of Csedmon, the first Anglo- 

Saxon Poet, located near Scarborough, England, was 
bombarded by the Germans during the present war. 

98. A Sonnet on our threatened war with Mexico — dated June 
28, 1916. 

Acknowledgment is made to the New Era, of Lancaster, 
to the New York Evening Mail and to the Philadel- 
phia Public Ledger, for permission to reprint certain of 
these War Sonnets which appeared in their columns; — and 
to all other Journals and Magazines which may have pub- 
lished the Author's poems. The Author begs that any 
neglect of direct acknowledgment will be attributed 
solely to oversight. 



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